


salt in the wound

by crookeds



Category: Fate/Grand Order
Genre: Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-26
Updated: 2019-02-26
Packaged: 2019-11-05 22:30:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17927588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crookeds/pseuds/crookeds
Summary: Enkidu takes up a new sparring partner. Things do not go over smoothly.





	salt in the wound

These sparring sessions are harmless—brought into being spontaneously when there is an itch that needs to be scratched.

Assassin answers their call.

Yan Qing is as swift as he is deadly, a true call to his class if there ever was one—to move quickly and pack enough force behind a blow that might risk to crush a windpipe if Enkidu didn’t accommodate and move out of the way fast enough. A different sort of fight than what they are used to—a perfect weapon such as themself is satisfied to fine tune their own functionality. Enkidu who, while lithe and light, fights with far more brute forcefulness than they’d ever like to admit to.

Chaldea is a gathering ground for heroes; they are wise to adapt to the change of scenery.

That is what they convince themself of.

Fighting him, even when only in a training simulation, is an instant gratification that they cannot deny.

For days that border upon weeks the two of them play at this. Meeting and clashing for hours on end until they are worn thin from exhaustion or forced to leave the arena. Yan Qing keeps up well, and Enkidu learns to be nimble with their hands, to feel alarmed when someone—he— comes rushing forward, fists packed and ready to knock them into submission.

His palm knicks just against the skin of cheek. Barely grazing as it goes by, but it draws blood.

Yan Qing smiles.

The cut makes way for a red that trickles down their skin, past the corner of Enkidu’s mouth. Their tongue darts out to catch it, quick enough that anyone else might wonder if they’d actually seen such a thing. They hear him laugh, shoulders shaking lightly; he is as satisfied as he is intrigued.

And Enkidu cannot deny the excitement that snags so easily onto them.

“Should we stop?” He says while he readies for another blow. Yan Qing is smart enough not to interrupt the flow of their fighting—bold enough to speak and poke and prod as they do. “You’re bleeding, and I wouldn’t want you to stain the sheet you carry on your back.”

Enkidu’s response is the sweeping out of their leg as they drop low to the ground, catching him by the ankle. He’s caught by surprise, falling backwards in an instant—unable to catch himself when Enkidu bounds forward, pinning him down.

And snaking forward is the rattle of chains. They take him by the wrists, climbing up so that his arms are forced to stay still, pinned down to his sides.

“I believe this is a satisfactory stopping point.”

Yan Qing laughs, barely, breathless, a humbling frustration underlying. “So dignified, even in the heat of a fight. You always say you’re less than human,” he replies. “But then even a weapon has its needs, hm?”

His smile is as wide as they have ever seen it—a sense of unrest nestles into the pit of Enkidu’s stomach.

The chains grow tighter; he does not waver.

“Humans presume to speak on what they cannot possibly comprehend?” Enkidu smiles, their body still taut, still ready to leap back at a moment’s notice. No need to be defensive, but what Yan Qing says has them on edge.

“I’m barely human—and it doesn’t take much to see what you wish for.”

A breath of a pause between the two of them.

“Or maybe you’re aching?”

He still smiles.

“Enkidu.”

They do not quite realize how their smile disappears. Only stay frozen, eyes wide, jaw locked as they stay hovering over him—the only movement is the slow drip of blood from their face onto his.

An agonizing stillness, in which they suddenly war with themself—between a need (an ache, he calls it) and a loyalty that goes unanswered by avoidant stares and a refusal to speak to them.

In a moment they think of him. What he might say if he disrupted this moment, the expression on his face, the ripple effect it would have.

All questions that are answered by the memory of a quiet gaze that lingers only for a moment. The very same that had caught them when they had appeared in their master’s summoning circle, the very same that has not graced them with its presence ever since.

His name in the back of their throat—

They lean down suddenly, Yan Qing’s mouth claimed by their own, hesitation dissipated by an instinctual longing they cannot claim anywhere else, with anyone else.

He rises to their touch, chains coming loose from his arm with a dull clink as they fall to the ground and disappear. He reaches up and takes a fistful of hair roughly into his hand, pulling them closer—Enkidu accommodating and pushing against him, their hips slotting against his, their hands finding easy placement onto his already bared skin. It is a pure physical attraction that enacts itself as such.

And Enkidu makes sure to close their eyes.

His name remains there—the back of their throat, caught and tangled, as is its rightful place. The image of him so perfect in their mind; it’s all they can do to keep themself from whispering into his mouth.

They pull back, more breathless than when they had been fighting, heartbeat thrumming wildly in their chest.

Eyes opening, so fixated on the idea of him, they do not realize the disturbing shock of unreality that lays itself underneath them.

Blonde hair mussed and his face flushed, mouth agape in anticipation for more. His eyes red—

It’s his voice that says their name now, and their chest squeezes tightly at the sound of it.

“Enkidu.”

Instant, shallow gratification.

Their hands suddenly find his throat.

“Do you think—” they squeeze, fingers digging in tightly, their voice taut with fury. The chains materialize again, aimed over their heads, pointed and ready to kill.

“— that you are worthy to take a king’s form?”

His response is laughter. Not the one that would come with this face, full and bright, all encompassing. It is strained under their hold, unkind and delighted all the same.

“Looks like this face isn’t so hard to wear. Disappointed that your king’s so easy to play?”

“Funny,” he smirks. “I thought you’d be more excited.”

Slowly the grip on his throat ebbs away.

Their shoulders slump, their guard pitifully lowered for someone feeling who feels so threatened.

They look at him—Gilgamesh’s face still perfectly rendered in place underneath them. Reluctantly a hand reaches upward, their fingers catching on the blonde. An echo of affection clings desperately to them as they tilt their head, observing him carefully.

Yan Qing, still playing Gilgamesh, reaches up to take a strand of hair between his fingers—

And Enkidu pushes away abruptly, wringing their hands out as if to wash themselves clean of his touch. They leap back as if burned, but their expression is still—no longer will he read so easily from their face, as if they are an open book.

“We are done here.”

They take their leave without another word, and over their shoulder they hear a mocking laughter, round and bright and full only of fool’s gold, that chases after their heels.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i really do not know... a thing about yan qing aside from the bare minimum so i hope this isn't an insult to his character thank you for fueling the sad h*rny dream. also apparently he hates tyrants and i think that's beautiful.


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